


wherever the winds of change may take you

by StormLeviosa



Series: In places deep, where dark things sleep [2]
Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dragons, Batfamily (DCU), Child Neglect, Dragon Bruce Wayne, Dragon Tim Drake, Fairy Tale Elements, Fairy Tale Style, Families of Choice, Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Light Angst, Mentioned Cassandra Cain, Not Canon Compliant, Tags May Change, Tim Drake-centric, every time Tim and Steph meet it is a disaster, i don't make the rules, in this case that is none of it, in true dc writer style i pick and choose whatever canon suits me best, she's getting her own standalone though don't worry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-02
Updated: 2020-12-02
Packaged: 2021-03-10 07:27:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27846850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StormLeviosa/pseuds/StormLeviosa
Summary: There is a boy who lives in the mountains. He is of ordinary size and ordinary weight and ordinary intelligence. He is not special.The boy is also a dragon.This is not strange in the slightest.There is much in the world that the boy must learn, however, and for that he must leave his cave and not look back.
Relationships: Tim Drake & Bruce Wayne
Series: In places deep, where dark things sleep [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2032825
Comments: 2
Kudos: 61
Collections: Greatest Batfam Fics to Ever Exist





	wherever the winds of change may take you

**Author's Note:**

> Apparently I'm incapable of writing these at normal times? It's literally after 11pm. I have a 9am seminar tomorrow. So this is FUN.
> 
> Anyway, so this is part...something of the dragon AU series (I have at least one other fic in planning/drafting that comes before this). Still in fairytale style because I love it.

Once upon a time, there was a boy who grew up surrounded by Things. He did not know the names of these Things, or their purpose, or where they came from. They were just Things.

The boy was not special. He was of an ordinary size and an ordinary colour and his wings were an ordinary shape and length. He was of ordinary intelligence and ordinary athleticism. 

The boy was also a dragon.

This was not strange in the slightest.

The boy did not have a name so much as he had a role. He slotted neatly into his parents’ lives - when they were home - and when they left, he simply existed. No one visited their cave, not even the bravest of brave warriors from the village, for the boy’s parents were fearsome and known for their… interest in humans. Or perhaps they were deterred by the myriad shields on display on the path. The boy knew every one of them. He liked to imagine who the people were who had carried such magnificent shields (he did not know they were called shields. He called them ‘hide-behinds’, because the men hid behind them). No one ever told him if his stories were accurate. There was no one to tell him. And the boy was not allowed out of the cave to ask.

When his parents left the cave, the boy did not know where they went. They always returned with more Things for the hoard, but never told him where they came from or what they did or why. And so the cave filled with so many Things that the boy could not see the walls or the floor or the ceiling. The piles and piles of Things stretched above his head and he could not stretch his young wings for fear of knocking something over. Yet the boy knew nothing of the world beyond them. 

Sometimes, when the sun set just right, the boy liked to watch the world from the mouth of the cave. The golden rays would light the world beyond on fire and he’d lean out as far as he could without stepping a claw over the edge to watch its brilliant, wonderful, beauty. He wanted to go out there. One day. He wanted to see it up close, to touch it and fly over the land and breathe in smog from a city or the soft air of the farms. One day. 

Long ago, when the boy was small, a little old lady dragon had been hired to look after him when his parents went away. He remembered this. He remembered bronze scales, dulled by age, and leathery, wrinkled wings. He remembered eyes that were hard and teeth that were sharp, but never was he afraid. The nanny dragon made sure he survived, but she also made sure to defend the hoard from any intruders. And now the boy was big enough that she wasn’t necessary, so he did that instead. He didn’t feel very big sometimes. It was definitely good that no one came to the cave.

The boy was used to silence, was used to stillness, was used to loneliness. So, when his  _ silent-still-lonely  _ was disturbed, he knew. Immediately. So, when a girl, strong and loud and tenacious, came up the mountain, he knew. Immediately.

  
  
  


Stephanie Brown grew up surrounded by secrets. She did not know they were secrets, or who’s they were, or why, or how. They were just secrets. 

Stephanie Brown was not special. She was of ordinary size and ordinary weight and her hair and eyes were an ordinary colour. She was of ordinary intelligence and ordinary athleticism.

Stephanie Brown wanted to be a dragon slayer.

This was not special in the slightest.

Stephanie Brown knew not to tell secrets before she knew her own name. Her father was not good at this, let his secrets ooze from every word he said. But that was just another kind of secret-keeping, just a subtle misdirection. The best lies are those closest to the truth. 

Her father was a very  _ very  _ good liar.

The town they lived in was not safe. Monsters prowled at night and bigger monsters - the human monsters - prowled by day. Her father was the biggest monster of all. He prowled by day and night. She was not often invited out with him, but when she was, she knew to watch for his lies, to watch for his silver tongue weaving falsehoods from people’s dreams. It made her sick. Stephanie Brown’s father took their neighbours’ money, said he’d keep them safe, then burned them when they least expected it. When she complained, he hit her across the face.

She didn’t complain at all after that.

Stephanie Brown was just a girl but she grew up with lies spilling from her lips easier than breathing. Stephanie Brown was just a girl but she knew that the most evil monsters, the most dangerous and fearsome of beasts, were human. 

When she was still small enough that school was compulsory, Stephanie Brown told her teacher that her daddy was a bad man. Her teacher was tired that day. He had stayed up late marking books by candlelight and barely made it in time for the first lesson. He had not eaten since the previous lunchtime. He had more work to do that night, too. 

“That’s nice,” said the teacher, not listening, “now go play with the other children.”

Stephanie Brown was good at keeping secrets. Even the secrets that needed to be told. Even the secrets her father told her never to tell, ever.

Especially the secrets her father told her never to tell, ever.

The worst lies are the ones we tell ourselves and Stephanie Brown was very  _ very  _ good at lying. Especially to herself. She told herself she could survive her father. A lie. She told herself he wasn’t that bad. A lie. She told herself it wasn’t wrong, to cheat and lie and swindle the innocent. A lie. The foundations of her life were built on lies. And when the foundations start to crumble, that’s when the trouble starts.

In the valley, they were always told about the dragons. ‘Never leave the town limits,’ the grown-ups used to say, ‘or the dragons will get you.’ Stephanie Brown had never seen a dragon, but she had seen the grown-ups cast frightened looks up the mountain when the thunder sounded a little bit not like thunder, and she’d seen people go up the path and never come back. She knew there was something up there, even when all the kids laughed at the silly stories the adults told them. She also knew that no one would dare to follow, should she ever escape that way. So, when her father got a little too much to bear, a little too greedy and a little too heavy with his fists, she took his secrets and his knife and his good coat that was a little too big, and she ran. 

She would kill whatever beast lived in the mountains and make them her kingdom.

  
  
  


In a recent treatise on dragon behaviour, a younger scholar from the mountains hypothesised that dragon hoards are not about greed, are not about accumulating riches, but are instead about collecting love. The treatise, which was published in several academic journals but is not yet considered fact, supposes that, since dragon hoards are not always of the same type (see Gordon et al.’s study on categorising hoards for more information), there must be some deciding factor, some  _ choice,  _ in what a dragon hoards, and thus that the dragon in question must maintain the hoard out of love or passion for those items, forever collecting more so as to better admire them. The scholar likened hoarding dragons to museum curators, always hunting for just one more item to complete their exhibition. If we accept this hypothesis as fact, it is no wonder that the boy’s parents were constantly out searching. Their hoard was of human things, antiques mostly, and as humans are a constantly evolving species, constantly growing and changing and developing, there is always more to collect. It is no wonder also that they defended their hoard so viciously in their younger days, so that none would dare to approach.

It would take a very brave, or very stupid, human to threaten a dragon’s hoard.

They say fortune favours the bold. Stephanie Brown was certainly bold. The boy, less so. Still, when the boy realised his home had been infiltrated, he puffed up his chest, rattled his scales, spread his wings as far as he could, and tried to make himself seem scary. It didn’t work very well.

When the boy first saw Stephanie Brown, he noticed two things. The first was that she did not have a hide-behind. The second was that she had a knife. He noticed the second when she tried to plunge the knife into his chest. It glanced off his scales, because even though the boy was still young, he had his adult scales - a brilliant shining red - and they were stronger than iron, but the boy screeched in alarm. He was not big or strong or brave enough to defend the hoard alone, even against one small girl with one small knife. The boy couldn’t even breathe fire yet. 

When Stephanie Brown first saw the boy, she didn’t notice anything. Her motto was ‘attack first, ask questions later’ and so she did. Her knife glanced off bright red scales, too bright for blood, too shiny for blood, and the boy screeched before she even noticed that that’s what he was: a boy. Stephanie Brown had no reference for dragon sizes, but she was sure that they were meant to be a little bit bigger and a whole lot more scary. Dragons were not meant to be scared of one small girl with one small knife. She could have attacked again, should have attacked again, but battles are won and lost in an instant and Stephanie Brown’s instant had passed. 

“Please don’t hurt me,” the boy squeaked, and Stephanie Brown stopped. She did not lower the knife. She was not so stupid. But she stopped, and looked the dragon in the face, and furrowed her brow in confusion.

“You can talk?” she said, incredulously, and the boy stared, for all that he could stare, with one round ice blue eye. She stared back. Neither of them moved, until they did. 

The boy turned around and tried to hide. It was an old habit from the days of the nanny dragon. He was too big for that now, but the instinct remained.

Stephanie Brown stepped forward and tried to get answers. It was an old habit from the days of puzzle books with her father, before all the bad things happened. She was too jaded for that now, but the instinct remained.

The boy couldn’t hide in the tunnel like he used to; he was too big. He could not hide behind the mound of ancient porcelain plates; his tail stuck out. He scampered further and further into the cave. Anything to get away from this human.

Stephanie Brown didn’t know the way through the cave; she had never been before. She did not stop to breathe or drink or eat or think; the boy would get away. She ran further and further into the cave. Anything to talk to this dragon.

  
  
  


Unlike many other dragon caves, this one did not hollow out the mountain. Eventually, their chase came to an end and the boy was cornered. There was nowhere to run, and nowhere to hide, and the human kept coming. The boy was scared, but he knew that this was where he had to take a stand, that this was where he would fight to defend his parents hoard. He readied himself, took a breath, and turned.

“What’s your name?” asked the human girl. “I’m Stephanie Brown, but you can call me Steph. Is this your cave? You have a lot of stuff and it’s all super cool. Much cooler than the stuff we have in our museum; that’s all farm equipment and old papers. I thought you’d be bigger than this. Are all dragons your size or are you just small?” The questions never seemed to end, and the boy was very confused. 

“What’s a name?” he asked, “What’s a museum? And farming?” He ignored the questions about his size. That was just rude of her.

“How can you not have a  _ name _ ?” Stephanie Brown asked the boy. It was not something she’d ever considered, somehow, that a dragon would not have a name. It was not something she’d ever considered, somehow, that she’d need to call the dragon anything at all. The dragon stared at her. He didn’t even know what a name was. This would have to be rectified. Immediately.

“A name is just what people call you. It’s… it’s a  _ name _ .” The dragon blinked.

“Oh,” he said. “I don’t have one, then.” Stephanie felt her jaw drop before she realised that might be a bad idea. She closed her mouth again. Her plan was not at all going the way she’d expected, but that was okay. Giving a dragon a name was a totally normal thing to do, right?

“I’ll just call you Tim,” she told the dragon. “You look like a Tim to me.” The dragon, Tim, did not argue. She’d call that a win. 

The boy did not understand the human girl. She had given him a  _ name _ , which he had never had before, and told him about  _ farming  _ and  _ museums _ and that hide-behinds were actually called  _ shields _ . She had stuck her claws in and refused to leave, and he’d even asked nicely. This was his parents’ hoard. She couldn’t stay. But he didn’t really want her to leave. He wanted to learn more about the human world, about all the places his parents went and all the Things they brought home. He wanted someone to talk to, so he wouldn’t have to listen to the echo of his own voice and pretend he had a friend. 

He let her sleep in the cave, so long as he could be in the same room (he didn’t want any sticky hands near the hoard, didn’t want anything to slip into pockets while his back was turned) and she did not protest. She slept under her coat, with her knife in her hand. And the boy watched. It was not clear whether he was watching her, or watching  _ over  _ her.

Stephanie Brown was pretty sure this dragon was safe. She’d named him, after all. Him watching her sleep was weird but maybe it was just a dragon thing, to be suspicious. When, the next morning, he asked her to leave and she said no, she almost thought she saw him smile.

  
  
  


When Stephanie Brown decided she hated monsters, she vowed to become a slayer. This was a genuine profession in her town, hunting the things that hunted them, and Stephanie Brown wanted it more than she’d wanted anything else. Under her hand, she declared, no monster would be safe. Her father had laughed at her then, at her eagerness and naivety. She did not yet know that her biggest monster would not be a dragon in a cave, or a troll under a bridge, but her own flesh and blood. 

If she wanted to become the protector of her town, steal her father’s position right out from under him, she would first have to figure out the situation with the dragon. 

Tim seemed nice. Not friendly, per se, but nice enough. He was hospitable, in that weird, begrudging way of him. He seemed to like learning about humans, about her life. He appealed to her natural curiosity, and was not at all like what she was expecting. 

She didn’t want to kill the dragon. This was a problem.

The more the boy talked to the human girl, the more  _ Tim  _ spoke to  _ Steph,  _ the more he found he liked her. It wasn’t just because she told him about the human world, though that played a part in it; it wasn’t just because she didn’t try to attack him again, though that played a part in it too. The human girl, Steph, was fun. The boy hadn’t known how to have fun with another person before. He had known how to have fun by himself, of course; he knew how to read - the few books in their cave anyway - and he knew how to make up stories in his head. But life inside a cave was boring without another person to have fun with. It was why he much preferred it when his parents were home, when they’d check their hoard and add to it and they’d eat together and maybe, just maybe, his father would tell a story from some far away land, or of another dragon they knew. It wasn’t fun, it wasn’t play, but it was more interesting than staying in the cave by himself. Except now he had Steph. Now he knew how to have fun.

  
  


“Would you like to leave the mountain?” the girl asked the boy, one day as they sat and watched the sun caress the earth with its last tentative rays. The boy’s eyes shone like beacons, and danced with joy.

“Yes,” he said. “It is my greatest wish.”

“Let's do it then,” said the girl to the boy she called Tim.

  
  
  


Once upon a time, a girl went to the mountain to slay a dragon. She did not know that it was a dragon, precisely. She only knew that something was out there, hidden in the dark tunnels that no one dared approach. The girl dared. She went to the mountain with her father’s stolen coat and her father’s stolen knife and a head full of secrets and lies.

She left the mountain with her father’s stolen coat and her father’s stolen knife and a friend.

The dragon was not slain. There were better things for a girl to do.

Twice upon a time, a boy left the mountain to learn. Somewhere in the human town was a school or a library or a museum or a university. Somewhere in the human town was information. So the boy left his isolation, and came to learn. This happened twice. Concurrently. Two boys, both alike in dignity, in this fair land where we lay our scene, from dragon’s cave break to new locality. One, a human boy, nurtured, traveled far and wide and soaked up knowledge like a sponge. The other, a dragon child, abandoned, clung to one person, one place, as if no other existed. He left the mountain with his parents’ stolen gold and his parents’ stolen magic and a friend. 

He returned to the mountain with his parents’ stolen gold and his parents’ stolen magic and a head full of secrets and lies.

He had learnt a new truth. But there were better things for a boy to do.

  
  


The boy named Tim had scared the villagers when he’d first walked into town. Steph had calmed them, had spoken with them, had assured them of his goodness, and they had let them pass. He pretended not to notice the wary, watchful eyes that followed him. She had shown him the nice houses near the main street, all tall stone and solid doors to keep out bitter mountain air. She had shown him the poor houses, ramshackle, cobbled together buildings with bright flowers in boxes and painted wood walls. They made up for the chill with brightness. She had shown him a  _ museum  _ with its ancient artefacts. He could only barely fit through the doors, and no further than the lobby, but a kind old man had shown him some Things, told him their names and uses:  _ shields, scythes, plough bits _ , a  _ bridle _ for a horse. Human Things. And why had his parents not told him all these wonderful stories? What was the harm in him knowing that humans grew food in the ground or that they loved little animals and kept them as pets? 

When darkness fell, the boy named Tim left the town and returned to the mountain. It was the first time he had ever left it. It would not be the last.

When darkness fell, the girl named Stephanie Brown did not go home. It was not the first time. It would not be the last

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you all enjoyed chapter 1!! I do not know how many chapters this will be, or how long it will take to finish, but knowing me I'll end up writing the whole thing instead of my stupid number of assignments and it'll be done by christmas.  
> Let me know what you think!! Comments and kudos are my life blood (or hop over to tumblr to scream at me in my ask box. It's always open).


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